Forget Me Not
by The Yankee Countess
Summary: Downton Abbey AU: Tom Branson was once a hallboy, and close friends with a young Lady Sybil. Years later, he returns to Downton as a journalist, believing no one will remember him. But someone has never forgotten. S/T 2016 Secret Santa fic for magfreak!
1. Chapter 1

_Ho! Ho! Ho! Here is my belated Secret Santa fic for **magfreak** (it's still Jan. 6 where you are, so technically it's still "Christmas", at least for a few more minutes) ;oP  
_

 _I'm afraid this will be two-three chapters, but I'm already hard at work on the next piece! So hopefully I can get those done within the week! BUT ANYWAY, let me explain her prompt:_

 _Tom was a hallboy at the house and Sybil used to play with him, but his family moves back to Ireland. Years later, he is a journalist and is working for the York paper. He comes back to the house because he has been assigned to write a profile about Robert. After their interview in the library, Cora invites him to stay for luncheon. He and Sybil recognize each other but neither says anything. Later, she catches him alone as he's leaving. They catch up and maybe more?_

 _I changed a few tiny things (he works for a London newspaper, as opposed to a York one) and you'll soon see the story he's come to write about, but...anyway, I do hope you like it and I hope it justifies at least a little bit of your amazing prompt! :oD_

* * *

 **Forget-Me-Not**  
 _ **by The Yankee Countess**_

 _January, 1919  
London_

"Branson!"

Tom lifted his head at the sound of his editor's voice. George Conway was every bit the stereotypical picture of a newspaper editor—large frame, long sideburns that were attached to his beard and moustache, and the stub of a cigar clenched tightly between his teeth. He also wore a constant expression of stern impatience, so Tom knew that when the man called you, you didn't keep him waiting.

"Sir?" he responded, rising quickly from his desk and hurrying over to Mr. Conway's office. His editor motioned for him to shut the door and take a seat, which Tom did, although he couldn't deny that he felt a prickle of unease creep down his spine. Surely he wasn't being sacked?

"I'll get right to it," Conway muttered, pulling his own chair up to the desk, his rotund belly brushing the edge. Tom swallowed and leaned forward. "The story you're currently working on…the one involving the Russian Civil War—"

"It's nearly finished," Tom interrupted, thinking perhaps that this was why Conway had called him in. "I just need to conduct a few more interviews—so many newspapers are only writing about the 'Reds' and 'Whites', but I think it's important to talk to those other people, like the Jewish refugees who—"

"Table it," Conway muttered, waving his hand dismissively.

Tom blinked. "Table it?" he repeated.

"At least for the time being," Conway muttered, spitting out his cigar stub and replacing it with a new, unlit one. "That story, much like the war, isn't going anywhere; you can come back to it later."

Tom was so confused. So…he hadn't been called in to discuss his story? "Sir, forgive me, I don't understand—"

"I need you to head up to Yorkshire," Conway explained, pausing to take several puffs on his newly lit cigar.

Tom's confusion didn't lessen. "Yorkshire?"

Conway nodded. "Originally Nicholson was going to cover the story, but yesterday he started hacking and coughing and woke up with a fever, and is certain he has that bloody flu everyone is going on about," the man muttered, clearly finding this bit of news more annoying than a question of concern for his journalist. "So I need someone else to take his place and travel to Yorkshire, and seeing as how your story isn't on a particular deadline, you're the man I need to go."

Tom frowned. He hated to have his writing interrupted, especially when he felt he was getting somewhere with it, but this wasn't the first time his editor had asked him and other journalists to set aside something they were doing to cover something else. But what in God's name was so important up in Yorkshire? "What's the story?"

Conway seemed to squirm slightly at the question, and Tom knew that wasn't a good sign. "There's an estate up there," he began, avoiding Tom's eyes. "They transformed themselves into a convalescent home during the War—"

"It's a 'puff piece'," Tom muttered under his breath. He hated writing "puff pieces".

Conway narrowed his eyes and gave Tom a challenging look. "Call it what you want, but you _ARE_ going to travel up there and cover this story!" he growled.

Tom didn't argue the fact, however he didn't bother to hide his disdain at the thought of leaving what he felt was a good, important story about the Russian Civil War and its effects on the common people and how those very people, if they were lucky, were escaping the war torn landscape…to write some kind of "puff piece" about oh so generous aristocrats who decided to open up their vast estate for high-ranking British officers so they could feel good about themselves and their so-called "patriotic charity".

"They're hardly the first estate to transform into such a place," he muttered to his editor. "What makes them worthy to appear in print?"

"Unlike those other estates, this one is still going," Conway explained, easing back into his chair. "The War officially came to an end last November, and apparently a great many places felt that when the clock struck 11, that meant they could close their doors and return to what they were before the War, regardless of how many men still needed time to convalesce—but not this place," he emphasized.

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Good for them," he muttered, still not feeling any warmth to the "magnanimous" residents of mysterious Yorkshire estate.

Conway sighed and set his cigar down on the overflowing ashtray. "Alright, I know you don't want to do this—even if you hadn't said anything, your posture has made that abundantly clear," he grumbled. "But as I said, you're the only journalist I have right now whose back isn't up against a deadline, and I need this story! It's a New Year and these are the sorts of stories people want to read. Mock them all you like, call them 'puff pieces' and sneer at them, but this country just got out of a long, bloody war—"

 _No one's fault but their own,_ Tom thought to himself.

"—And people want to read something positive," Conway finished. "All the other newspapers are writing stories like this, and I refuse to be the only one left behind."

Tom was tempted to argue the matter. Tempted to mutter something about _"who cares what the other newspapers are doing"_ or _"better to keep people's eyes open to the injustices of the world, rather than hide behind 'feel-good patriotism'",_ but he didn't. He knew it was a moot point, and he knew that his editor wasn't asking him to write this story; he was telling him.

"Fine," he sighed with resignation. At least if he wrote it, he could perhaps slip in some of his own personal political opinions into the piece. "When do you need me to go?"

Conway glanced at the clock over Tom's head. "There's a train leaving Victoria Station in the next hour—I suggest you hurry back to your flat and collect a suitcase; you'll be staying a few days."

Tom's eyes were practically bulging. "A few days!?"

"Two at most," Conway explained with a dismissive gesture, before picking up his cigar and placing back between his teeth. He opened a drawer in his desk and tossed a large envelope towards Tom. "There's all the information you need, plus the name of the inn Nicholson was going to stay, had he gone. The reservation is still under his name, and as far as the estate is concerned, they still think he's coming up to write the story, so you'll have to set them straight once you arrive."

Tom could feel a headache coming on. He had so much to do and less than an hour to do it all. While he didn't wish any real harm on Nicholson, he couldn't help but curse the man's name for putting him in this situation.

"Branson!"

Tom had been moving towards the door, but stopped at Conway's voice. His editor pointed at the envelope which he had given to Tom, which was still lying atop the desk. "You'll be needing that."

Tom mutely nodded his head and retrieved the envelope. Conway didn't say anything further, didn't even wish him "good luck", just went right back to whatever he was working on before he had called Tom into his office.

"Everything alright?" someone asked, and Tom turned his head to see Peter, his good friend and the only other Irishman at the paper, looking at him with concern. "You didn't get the sack, did you?"

"No," Tom reassured, although there was a tiny part of him that wondered if that would be so bad, compared to the fate that awaited him. "I have to travel north; cover a story involving some estate that turned itself into a convalescent home."

Peter's eyebrows lifted in a quizzical manner at this. "What's the estate?"

"I—bloody hell, I never asked," he realized, and looked down at the envelope in his hands. He opened it to see where on earth he was traveling…and he swore his heart skipped a beat at the two simple words printed at the top of a page: _Downton Abbey._

* * *

 _April, 1906  
Yorkshire_

The boy stared up at sky, his eyes growing wider with every hoof beat. He wasn't even aware that the horses had stopped, until a gruff Yorkshire accent filled his ears and muttered, "We're here, lad—get going!"

The boy swallowed and mutely nodded his head to the farmer's order, but he didn't lower his eyes. What had caught his attention had nothing to do with the sky, but everything to do with what was _touching_ the sky, or so it seemed.

"Oi!"

The boy was jerked from his thoughts by the Yorkshireman's bark. He quickly scrambled down from the farmer's cart and grabbed his meager satchel. No sooner had his feet touched the ground, the farmer had already cracked the whip and his horses were quickly moving up the lane, away from the towering mountain of brick and glass.

The boy paid the farmer no heed, he returned his gaze to the monolith before him. His entire journey here, he had been feeling anxious and uncertain. He thought he might even feel frightened, especially at this moment. But now, as he faced this place that was like nothing he had ever visited or seen before…he found that he wasn't afraid. Determined…that was the emotion that was ruling him right now. Determined to prove himself; prove to everyone that he was so much more than a "position".

With his jaw set and his eyes focused, he let out a gust of air from his nostrils, much like a bull preparing to charge, and took very determined steps down the lane.

The lane circled the front of the house, but he knew better than to walk up those long, massive steps to the large, wooden door. That was something he had been taught long before he had made this journey—which doors were "proper" for someone like himself, and someone like _them_ , to enter. The thought caused him to scowl at the door, but he didn't let his eyes linger, he continued his determined march, passed the front of the house towards its side—

"UMPH!"

The boy suddenly found himself flat on his back, wincing at the feel of gravel digging into his skin. The air had been momentary knocked from his lungs and he was coughing and gasping as he tried to sit up. It wasn't a punch, but something—or someone—had certainly slammed into him. In fact, he realized then that he wasn't the only one lying on the ground.

He was frowning at first, and despite the pain he had felt from being knocked to the ground, his hands had formed fists and he was determined to take on whoever had run into him, but his fists quickly unclenched, and his frown quickly faded as he realized that the person responsible for his current state was also groaning in pain…and wearing a dress.

The girl was right next to him; in fact she had momentarily been on top of him, but had rolled off to the side not long after the two of them had made impact with the gravel beneath. While he was leaning up by his elbows, she was sitting up completely, and hissing as her fingers brushed over one of her knees. Even at his young age, he knew it wasn't proper to look, let alone stare, at a woman's—or in this case, girl's—legs, but his eyes were drawn to her fingers, which were wet and red as they brushed over the surface of her knee.

Her stockings were shredded to pieces, especially over her knees, and while she hadn't cried out, he could see the glisten of tears just under her eyes, and the slight wobble of her bottom lip.

He didn't even pause to second guess himself. "Here," he spoke at last, handing her an old handkerchief from his back pocket. The girl snapped her head up then, looking surprised, as if she hadn't realized someone else was there. He was startled by her wide, blue eyes, and his tongue felt heavy and the effort to form words seemed impossible. She blinked and returned his stare, before finally glancing down at the offered handkerchief…and tentatively reaching forward to take it.

"Thank you," she politely murmured, her accent unlike any he was used to hearing. If her dress and stockings hadn't been clue enough, her voice confirmed it; she was one of _them_.

"What's your name?"

His eyes snapped back to hers and he blinked as his mind tried to make sense of her question. Had she just asked…? Didn't she know who…or rather, what, he was…?

"I'm Sybil," the girl introduced, and then much to his surprise…she smiled.

A sincere, genuine smile; the sort you would give someone who was your friend.

"…Tom," he finally managed to say, surprising himself when he realized he had answered her initial question. They weren't supposed to be doing this…talking like this…and yet he couldn't stop himself from saying, "I'm Tom."

Her smile grew, and Tom found himself swallowing down a strange lump. "It's nice to meet you, Tom," she said with a giggle. It wasn't a teasing giggle. Just like her smile, it too was kind and genuine.

"Do you shake hands?" she asked him, and before he could answer, or even realize what was happening, she reached forward and grasped the hand that had offered her the handkerchief and gave it a firm squeeze. "Grandmama says everybody shakes hands in New York." He had no idea what she was talking about, but it didn't matter. He simply looked down at their clasped hands and found himself returning the squeeze.

This caused her to giggle again, which actually brought a smile to his own lips, a smile that only grew as he noticed how her cheeks were turning a bright shade of pink.

However, whatever strange revelry they had found themselves in, quickly shattered at the sound of a woman's gasp and cry.

"LADY SYBIL! What on earth has happened!? How…?"

The woman's voice faded as she looked past her charge to Tom, and Tom found himself quickly scrambling to his feet, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

 _"Tommy!?"_ the woman screeched, her Irish accent thick and familiar.

Tom lowered his eyes and kept them lowered as he mumbled back, "Auntie Aoife."

 _"Auntie?"_ he heard the girl question, but she was quickly shushed by his aunt.

"What happened!?" his aunt demanded, but she didn't bother to wait for an answer. She immediately crouched down before them, gasping at the sight of girl's bloody knees, scolding her for ruining her stockings, and then his aunt turned to him and began reprimanding him for his own disheveled appearance _("you haven't even started yet! Your first day, Tommy! Your mother is counting on me; the whole family is depending on you! And you aren't fit to be seen by anyone!")_

"Please don't shout at him, Nanny!" he heard the girl plead, causing him to lift his head in surprise. She was…defending him? "It's my fault," she continued, stepping in front of him, as if to shield him. "I was running and I wasn't paying attention—"

"Lady Sybil," his aunt groaned, in a tone that revealed this wasn't the first time such excuses (or explanations) had been offered. "You might be young, but you are STILL a Lady, and Ladies DO NOT—"

"Run," the girl mumbled, looking down at the ground herself. Aye, his Auntie Aoife was not a woman to cross, be you Irish and working class, or posh and English.

However, the girl's defense of him did not relinquish. "I will explain that it was my fault to anyone who needs to know—"

"Alright, alright, calm yourself, child," his aunt sighed, and Tom glanced up at her from the corner of his eye and felt the corner of his mouth lift at the frustrated, but endearing smile he saw her give the girl. He quickly looked away when she turned her focus back on him once again. "Tommy—you need to wash before you meet with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. I'll take you to the kitchens where you can clean up while I see to Lady Sybil."

Tom silently nodded his head and obediently followed his aunt as she took Sybil's hand and led them to the servant's entrance, the very door he had looking to enter before the girl— _Lady Sybil_ —slammed into him.

The girl—Lady Sybil—glanced over her shoulder at him several times, as if making sure he was still there and no one had come to snatch him away. He tried not to look at her, knowing that was how it was supposed to be: don't look, don't speak, unless spoken to, and even then, keep it minimal. His aunt had reminded him by the use of the girl's "true" name ("Lady Sybil") how far above him she truly was.

…And yet despite that, and despite that fact that he had only just met her…there was something…he couldn't explain it, and when he thought about it, it caused his face to burn, but there was _something_ that made it feel perfectly…natural…to look, and speak, and even laugh and smile, with young Lady Sybil.

"Sink is just through there," his aunt informed him, once they passed through the servant's entrance. "Mind Mrs. Patmore and her staff; stay out of their way and once you've cleaned up, sit right here and don't move!" she commanded, pointing at a chair just by the door. She didn't wait for him to nod or reply, she simply turned and led Lady Sybil away, although Lady Sybil did turn once again to look at him, and mouthed back, _"shout for me if you need help!"_

He watched her go, tugged away by his aunt's insistent grip. A part of him was tempted to cry out _"Help!"_ just to see what would happen. He didn't, of course, because his aunt was right—his mother and siblings were depending on him, even now at the age of eleven. His older siblings had done their share for the family and now it was his turn. And after receiving a letter from his aunt, telling his mother about the need for hall boys at the estate where she had been hired to work as a nanny for the Earl of Grantham's daughters, his mother had told him to pack his belongings and get ready to travel across the sea to Yorkshire. He hadn't wanted to leave Ireland; he missed his family and home very much. But he knew he had a responsibility to his family, and knew that based on his aunt's letters to her sister, his mother, the pay would be good, even for a hall boy.

Still, had she meant it, her defense of him? If the butler or housekeeper or even Lord Grantham himself began to reprimand him, would she still coming running to his side if he called out?

 _Help_ , he silently thought. _Don't go…please stay with me…_

 _Don't go…_

 _Stay, please…_

 _Come back…_

 _Come back…_

 _Please…_

"Tickets!"

Tom's eyes snapped open as the train car jerked forward. He was disorientated and confused, looking around the compartment and trying to recall where he was.

"Tickets!" the stern voice repeated.

He groggily nodded his head and retrieved the ticket from his inside coat pocket, handing it to the agent who snipped it, before returning it to Tom and going about his way.

Tom sighed and let his head rest against the glass of his window, looking out at the passing countryside. Were they in Yorkshire yet? How much further to Downton? And then the question he had been asking himself over and over, ever since he had learned where he was going, resurfaced: _Will there be anyone there who will recognize me?_

It was doubtful. He was seventeen when he left Downton Abbey, in the spring of 1912, and so much had happened since then. No, he doubted anyone would recognize or remember him, even the staff (assuming the same people were still there). And _she_ certainly wouldn't remember him…not that it mattered, of course. She was…what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Most likely she had married, and was living in some grand castle of her own _. And making some lucky bastard blissfully happy…_

Tom sighed and closed his eyes, squeezing them shut in an effort to force unwanted thoughts and distant memories at that: a distance. That was the past, and nothing could be changed about it, which was why he always tried to focus on the present and future, rather than dwell in _"what might/could have been…"_

He was no longer a hall boy; he was no longer in the employ of Robert Crawley. He was a journalist now, a good journalist, proud of what he wrote…

But he would always be a working-class Irishman, just as she would always be an English Lady. And no matter what else he changed about his life, that fact would always remain true.

* * *

When he stepped off the train, Tom was struck by a strange realization that everything seemed familiar…and yet nothing looked the same. This wasn't the first time he had felt something akin to this; when he had returned to Ireland after so many years away, he was struck by how familiar and different everything seemed, but then he had assumed it was because he had left Ireland as a child, and returned to it as a man. Now…he wasn't quite sure how to explain his feelings. Perhaps people always felt this way when returning to a place that once held meaning for them?

He went first to the Grantham Arms where he checked into the room Nicholson had originally booked, explained to the innkeeper that who he was and that he had come in Nicholson's place (although he did not tell the man that he had once worked up at the big house), and then retreated to his room where he paced like a restless animal for about a quarter of an hour, before finally leaving the inn to walk…where? He told himself he wanted to walk around the village, but his feet carried him away and took him directly to the place that was causing so much anxiety.

He didn't arrive on the back of a farmer's wagon this time. Nor was he a lad of eleven. And…given that he was no longer a servant, there truly could be no objection, at least in his mind, to walking right up to that great wooden door and knocking on it.

And yet he didn't. Or rather, he moved towards the corner, the same corner where she had unexpectedly slammed into his body, causing the both of them to fall…and thus beginning all that took place afterward.

He often wondered, what would have happened if she hadn't come barreling around that corner? Would they have ever spoken? Would she have ever learned his name? Would she have smiled at him? Would they…have been friends?

…Would he still be feeling this anxious?

"Can I help you?"

Tom whirled around at the voice, and met the eyes of an older man, with gray hair and moustache, dressed in a long white coat. Tom recognized the doctor, although he doubted the doctor remembered him. Tom was just a boy when he had taken ill to the point that Dr. Clarkson was called. And judging from the way the other man was looking at him, Tom felt his suspicions were correct.

"I'm from _The Chronicle_ , my name is—"

"Oh!" Dr. Clarkson exclaimed, and for a moment Tom thought perhaps if the man had recognized him. "You're the journalist!"

Tom forced a small smile and nodded his head. "Aye, I am. My name is—"

"Lady Edith is the one that you'll want to talk to," Dr. Clarkson continued, surprising Tom by mentioning Lord Grantham's middle daughter.

"Lady Edith?"

Dr. Clarkson nodded. "She's the 'administrator' for the convalescent home, if you will. I make calls at least once a day when I am able, but she's the one that you want to speak with—as well as Nurse Crawley, of course."

 _Nurse Crawley._ Tom remembered reading something about a Mrs. Isobel Crawley in the file that his editor had given him. She was some kind of distant relation to Lord Grantham, as well as a nurse, her late husband having been a doctor. He had also read that she was instrumental in getting the convalescent home started, so no doubt this was to whom Dr. Clarkson was referring.

"Ah, in fact that's her coming around the corner," Dr. Clarkson explained, gesturing to just over Tom's shoulder. Tom turned, not realizing that the woman in question was practically upon him. She was holding a clipboard and was too busy reading whatever was written on it to realize she was about to—

"UMPH!"

Thirteen years ago, she had caused the both of them to fall backwards, but this time it was only her clipboard that hit the gravel.

His hands shot out and caught her arms, just above her elbows, while her own hands grasped the lapels of his jacket, their actions steadying the both of them, at least for the moment. Because when she looked up at him, her eyes every bit as wide and blue as he remembered, he thought for certain his legs would give way. Despite the near collision, Dr. Clarkson proceeded with introductions. "Ah, Nurse Crawley, this is the journalist—"

"Tom?" she whispered.

She remembered him.

 _To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

_Here's the second chapter at last! And...*sigh* I think this is going to go on for a little while longer. Hopefully not *too* long, but just want to give you fair warning! That being said, I know I have other stories people would like to see updates for and I am going to try and write those *as well as* writing this, although this story is going to take priority in finishing first. So again, I ask that you be patient with me :o) thank you!  
_

 _OH! And just to clear up any confusion; the timeline in terms of character's ages differs in this story as to how it was portrayed on the show. For example, on the show I was given the impression that Tom was anywhere between 5-8 years older than Sybil. In this story, he's two years older than her. Which means he's also a bit younger in this story in 1919, than he would have been on the show (Allen Leech said that Tom was 23 when he arrived at Downton in 1913, which meant he was born in 1890). So in *this* story, Tom was born in 1895, which means he's 23/24 when he returns to Downton in 1919 (and Sybil would be 21/22)._

 _Hope that clarifies any confusion about ages! Now, on with the story :oP_

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

Tom stared at his reflection in the glass bookcase, a reflection that had aged quite a bit since he had last set foot in this room. He looked around the Downton library and swallowed, wiping his palms on the sides of his jacket, trying his hardest to calm his racing heart. _I can't believe I'm back here_ , he thought to himself. It was oddly surreal, in a "nightmarish" sort of way. The room hadn't changed that much since he had last seen it, with the exception of the folding screens that divided the library in half. _One for the Crawleys and one for the soldiers,_ he mused to himself. He wondered which half was bigger? No doubt that was the Crawley's half. Was that the half he was standing in now?

The door to the library began to open and Tom turned on his heel, holding his breath as waited to see who was…

The man was still every bit the giant Tom remembered him to be—grayer now, but still forbidding looking.

"Lady Edith will be with you shortly," the Downton butler announced, barely looking at him.

 _He doesn't recognize me,_ Tom realized. He honestly wasn't sure if he felt relieved or disappointed by this.

"Thank you…Mr. Carson," he found himself replying, even before he had finished debating with himself whether or not he should.

The butler paused, and looked back at him, this time meeting his eyes. There was a deep frown on the large man's face, but it wasn't one of hostility. No, if anything, it was one of…confusion.

"Did our guest introduce himself to you, Carson?"

Tom felt his heart jump into his throat at the sound of her husky voice. He looked over the larger man's shoulder to see her emerge from just behind the butler, her eyes locking with his own.

"His name is…Tom Branson," she finished, her gaze never leaving his.

Carson looked back at him, then at Sybil, then back at him once more. "…Branson?" he managed to repeat, as his mind slowly wove through the foggy haze of old memories.

Sybil simply nodded her head, before finally turning away from Tom and looking up at the giant butler. "Would you be so kind as to see some tea brought up?"

Carson bowed his head, murmuring an obedient, "of course, milady," before turning to go and see about the task she had requested. However, he did manage to look back at Tom one last time, still frowning, before leaving the library…and Tom…alone with his host.

 _Lady Sybil…_

No, _not_ Lady Sybil; "Nurse Crawley" was what Dr. Clarkson had called her. _It suits her…_

"Edith will be here soon…" Sybil explained, breaking the silence. "She's knows that you're here."

Him, the journalist, or him, the former hall boy?

"She's in the midst of penning a letter for Capt. Smiley," she continued by way of explanation. She did not need to explain why her sister was doing this.

"That's very kind of her," he found himself murmuring back.

Sybil nodded her head in agreement, before making a gesture to one of the many chairs and settees in the room. "Won't you have a seat?"

Her voice was calm, but also cold. _Bitterly cold._ After their "reunion" just outside, she had righted herself, blinked, and then hurried along without a backwards glance, leaving him staring after her with his heart racing a mile per minute. She was here. And…and she was even more beautiful than he could have imagined. He wanted to call out after her, to even follow her, but something held him back. And perhaps that had been for the best?

It was Dr. Clarkson who had led him into the house, taking him directly to the library and assuring him that he would see to it that his presence was made known. But the only person to whom Tom really cared to see again had run away from him, and in all honesty, could he blame her? Now she was here, again, only this time, she had completely transformed. The startled girl he had quite literally run into was now a formidable matron, a woman no man would dare cross if they knew what was good for them. So because of that…he took a seat in one of the nearby chairs, his eyes never leaving her.

She kept her gaze, harsh and cold, locked on him, and seemed to nod her head, ever so slightly, in approval to his actions. Tom narrowed his eyes as he looked back at her. She was very good at appearing harsh—her chin and nose held high, her posture ramrod straight—yet Tom could see that it was all a façade. _That's not who she is…_

She surprised him then, when she too sank down into a nearby chair. Although her back remained rigid and her gaze remained hard, he could see something behind the "mask" she wore.

 _Questions…_

"So you're a journalist," she finally said, her hands folded atop her lap in that prim manner he remembered she sometimes mimicked.

Tom nodded his head. It was more an observation than a question.

"For how long?" she persisted, the harshness in her voice melting slightly, revealing a sense of urgency.

"Six years," he answered, watching her as she did the math in her head.

"Six years," she repeated, more to herself. "So…you've been doing this since you left."

 _Since he left service at Downton Abbey._ "Aye," he confirmed, his gaze falling to the floor for a moment.

Sybil simply nodded her head, her own gaze now fixed on a spot on different spot on the floor. "With the same paper?" she asked after a pause.

Her voice sounded more natural now, more…how he remembered her.

"No," he answered. "I've only been writing for _The Chronicle_ since July of last year."

Sybil pressed her lips together as she took in this information, and again she kept her eyes locked with floor. "Where were you writing before?"

" _Where"_ not _"Who"._ "A small paper, back in Dublin," he finally answered after a pause. He watched her and waited for the next question.

"Dublin," she whispered, her fingers curling on her lap and squeezing fistfuls of her apron. "I suppose that makes sense…" she added after a moment. "You did always say that you missed Ireland…"

Tom felt his throat go dry as he noticed something glisten on her cheek. His body screamed at him to rise from his chair and cross the room to her, but the tension was broken when the door to the library opened and Lady Edith strolled into the room, smiling and panting ever so slightly, as if she had just hurried from wherever she had been. "Ah! Mr. Nicholson, I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," she apologized, completely oblivious to whatever it was she had interrupted. Tom wasn't exactly sure what to call it either.

"No, Edith," Sybil answered, surprising her sister who had not realized Sybil was there. She rose to her feet and once again locked her gaze on Tom, a gaze that had was once again cold and harsh. "I'm afraid you're mistaken; this is Tom Branson."

Like Carson, Lady Edith also looked confused. "Oh…I…I'm terribly sorry," she murmured, turning back to Tom and offering an apologetic smile. "I was told that a Mr. Nicholson would be coming—"

"He has taken ill," Tom quickly explained, forcing a polite smile in an effort to save them all from the awkwardness that had fallen over the room. "My editor asked me to come in his stead."

"Oh! Oh, well, that explains it," Lady Edith politely replied, still ignorant of any connection Tom had to Downton other than being a replacement journalist. Of course, Sybil was determined to correct that ignorance.

"Mr. Branson used to work here," Sybil volunteered, her gaze once again locking with Tom's. Inwardly, Tom rolled his eyes. Clearly Sybil was planning to extract any sort of "revenge" on him by forcing him to explain himself and thus confront that part of his past he had left behind over six years ago.

Lady Edith frowned and turned her gaze back to Tom. "Worked here?" she repeated in confusion.

Tom sighed and forced yet another smile. "Aye, milady, as a hall boy," he explained.

"Oh! Oh…oh of course…" she answered, pretending as if she remembered him when it was obvious she didn't.

"It was a long time ago," Tom felt the need to reassure.

"1912," Sybil added, holding his gaze over her sister's shoulder. "Just before the Season."

Lady Edith looked back at Sybil in surprise, before turning back to Tom and looking every bit as uncomfortable as he felt. "Well…I suppose I should say, 'welcome back, Mr. Branson'," Lady Edith murmured, forcing a smile of her own in an attempt to make sense of the awkwardness they all found themselves in.

However, any relief that was to be had was short-lived, when Sybil gave a dry chuckle, before muttering, "That won't be necessary, Edith; Mr. Branson was glad to leave here and no doubt is looking forward to leaving again." And without a backwards glance, she stormed out of the library.

* * *

 _July, 1907_

"Come on, Branson!" one of the hall boys shouted, running past Tom and knocking into his shoulder. They were excited because they were being given a rare treat: an entire hour unto themselves, when they could simply be "boys".

"Leave him," one of the other boys muttered. "You know how he is."

Tom resented the statement, however he couldn't necessarily argue against it, either. The truth of the matter was…he just didn't like cricket. And lately, when they found themselves in such a situation, having some "free time" to themselves to run and play and more or less, "act their age", that was all his fellow hall boys wanted to do: play cricket. Whereas he would much rather spend that time sitting in the shade of one of Downton's many oaks, or better yet, one of its long, leafy willows, and simply lose himself in a book. Reading was its own rare treat.

The other boys rushed towards a nearby clearing, waving cricket bats and boasting that when Lord Grantham returned from London, he would _personally_ ask one of them to join the house team (after recognizing how gifted they were at the sport, of course). Perhaps that was why they were so eager to play when these chances presented themselves? Tom sighed and shook his head at the thought; even when they weren't working, they were still trying to "please" their employer.

He had just leaned against the trunk of one of his desired willows, and opened the book to where he had last left off, when a scattering of leaves came drifting down and landed on his head. Tom sighed and wiped the leaves off, before turning to look upwards, not at all surprised by what he saw. "Are you hiding from Madame _Le Pew_?"

Sybil's hand covered her mouth, but it did little to hide her giggle. "You shouldn't call her that," she attempted to scold.

"You shouldn't hide from your governess," he retorted. "Or climb trees."

Sybil stuck her tongue out at him (a very "un-ladylike" thing to do), but Tom couldn't help but grin. Sometimes he forgot that she was a "Lady".

"What are you reading?" Sybil asked, scrambling down from the tree with such ease. He remembered the first time he found her in one. It had only been a month after he started working there, and at first he thought she was stuck. He dropped the garbage pail he was holding and quickly ran to her, starting to climb and assuring her that _"everything will be alright!"_ to which she responded, _"I know,"_ before swinging down a few branches and then landing on her feet, a proud and rather smug smile on her face.

Lady Sybil Crawley was not someone to make assumptions about.

"Oliver Twist," Tom answered with a resigned sigh.

"I haven't read that one," Sybil remarked, before finally reaching the ground. It wasn't missed by Tom that she was shoeless…and without stockings, too. He swallowed and quickly looked away, his face burning just slightly. "Don't you like it?" he heard Sybil ask, and realized she had more or less plopped herself right next to him, arranging her skirts just so around her knees. He chuckled at the sight; she loved to climb trees and run barefoot through the grass, but she insisted on sitting just so with her skirts perfectly even. No, Lady Sybil was most definitely not someone to make assumptions about.

"It's alright," Tom answered with a bit of a shrug. "I like it better than that other book Mr. Parker recommended."

"Great Expectations!" Sybil recited, causing him to smile, especially when she made a face to match his own thoughts on the book.

"Mr. Parker is convinced I'll love Dickens," Tom explained with a shake of his head.

"I like A Christmas Carol," Sybil volunteered with a bright smile. "Oh! And The Old Curiosity Shop! Nanny read that one to me last Christmas."

Tom smiled softly at Sybil's words, her affection for his aunt clearly heard in her voice and written across her face. While he knew, based on his aunt's mutterings, that Sybil could be "quite the handful" when it came to "managing her", he also knew that the affection Sybil felt for his Auntie Aoife was returned, and returned strongly.

"Do you like Mr. Parker?" Sybil asked him, her eyes large and wide with genuine curiosity.

Mr. Parker was a school teacher in the village, who came twice a week to the big house to tutor the hall boys (thanks to the generosity of Lord Grantham). Actually, in all seriousness, Tom couldn't imagine other employers giving a second thought to the education of the boys who worked for them. They might be servants, but Lord Grantham also saw them as boys—young boys who had left school (if they had any) to go and work. So twice a week, Mr. Parker would come and teach them for an hour, the basics in reading, writing, and arithmetic.

Tom was one of the younger hall boys. He had just turned thirteen, but a majority of the boys at Downton were older. Most of them came from the village, or the farms surrounding the estate. Many of them would go back to those farms, while others would be recommended for other estates, and a special handful would be taken under Mr. Carson's wing to be trained as footmen (but you had to be seventeen for that). Yet despite the range in their ages, many of the boys were in a similar boat in terms of how "educated" they were. Tom knew of several of the older hall boys who had only just began learning how to read. Mr. Parker was used to this, and therefore had assumed Tom would be just as ignorant. But Tom quickly proved the teacher wrong, when he read back to the man all the assigned sentences in their grammar books (and copied each of the letters with an easy hand).

"He's alright," Tom murmured, more to himself than to Sybil. Mr. Parker realized Tom needed more than just the basics, and so approached Lord Grantham about taking him and a few other boys (four, total) and offering them something a bit more "advanced" than what he was teaching the rest of the hall boys. Lord Grantham was surprised by this news, but pleasantly surprised, or so it seemed to Tom. Actually, he looked impressed…like he hadn't thought it possible that someone like Tom could read so well. _Don't make assumptions about me, either_ , Tom thought to himself.

"Aye," Tom murmured again, after a moment's pause. While he may not care entirely for Mr. Parker's choices in books, he did now have the freedom to read more, as well as learn more beyond the basics the teacher was offering. Like history! History was his favorite. "Aye, I like him," he turned to look at her, curious to know what had sparked her question. "Why do you ask?"

Sybil gave a dramatic sigh, before flopping back against the tree trunk and folding her arms across her chest. "I just wish Madame La Pare would let me read books the way Mr. Parker allows you."

"Mr. Parker _assigns_ me books, I don't get to pick them," he explained. He did feel at ease when talking to Sybil, but it was at moments like this where he was reminded of the differences between the two of them. He didn't have the same freedoms that she had, such as going into the Downton library and picking any book off the shelf she so desired.

Sybil made a face. "I know, but…well, at least you get to read! I envy that!"

Tom frowned. "You get to read—"

"Not like you!" Sybil shook her head. "Not Dickens, or…or Shakespeare or Byron or…or George Elliot! Who was a woman, you know."

Tom's frown deepened. There was a woman named George?

"I'm 'too young' for novels, and according to Madame La Pare, 'my feminine mind is too delicate for the likes of such masculine authors'."

Now Tom was frowning for an altogether different reason. He never cared for the French governess either, but that was because she always seemed so cold and harsh (and her dresses had a distinct odor, hence the nickname Tom had fashioned for her). But he had no idea she was so…backwards.

"I do read some prose and poetry, but nothing like the books you read," Sybil sighed. "And most of my time is spent either studying French or learning to curtsey."

Tom looked at her in disbelief. "You're joking…"

Sybil shook her head. "I wish I was, but it's true! Just yesterday, she had me curtseying for a whole half-hour! My knees were aching when it was over! And it still wasn't good enough," she muttered. "I am going to 'shame their majesties', as well as my family, if I do not correct myself before my season."

The Season. That was where Lord and Lady Grantham were right now—in London, attending "The Season". Tom found the whole thing strange and rather ridiculous, especially the part about girls being "presented" to the King and Queen. Why did that matter? Posh people were strange.

"I wish I could go to school like you…" Sybil sighed once again. She leaned back against the tree, only this time, her head fell to his shoulder and Tom found himself nervously swallowing. It wasn't the first time Sybil had done this. And like that first time, he didn't try to stop her…in truth, he didn't want to. He rather liked the feel of her head, her cheek, resting on his shoulder. And if he turned his head, ever so slightly…her curls, wild and brown, would graze his own cheek…and unlike "Madame Le Pew", Lady Sybil did not carry an unpleasant odor. Quite the opposite, in fact.

But that was to be expected, he reminded himself. She was, after all, one of _them_. She got to bathe every day if she so wished, and with clean water each and every time. He bathed twice a week (three times if you counted Sundays), and he had to share the water with all the other boys, which meant most of the time you were bathing in someone's dirty bath water.

"I don't go to school," he murmured, feeling it was important to remind them both (especially himself) that as much as they enjoyed one another's company, they were still very, very different people. "I'm a servant in your father's house, and he's kind enough to let me and the other boys be tutored by Mr. Parker, but that's not a school, nor is it anything like the school in the village, or the school that your kind get to go to."

Sybil's head shot up from his shoulder. _"My kind?"_ she repeated, raising a dark eyebrow in question.

Tom swallowed, and felt heat flood his face. He set his jaw and kept his eyes locked on the book in his lap. "If I did what you're doing—hiding from my teacher, or from Mr. Carson—I'd be horse whipped before being tossed out without any reference."

Sybil's eyes widened with horror. "Carson would NEVER—"

"It doesn't matter," he muttered with a shake of his head, although he believed her; Mr. Carson was a stern man, but he would never beat a child. "The point is…we're different," he murmured at last, still keeping his eyes locked to the book before him. "You can run away and climb trees without fear of losing the roof over your head, while I have to read the books assigned to me with whatever time I can find, while at the same time managing to do all the work that is expected of me, if I wish to keep that same roof over my own."

It was harsh, he knew, and a part of him didn't know why exactly he was speaking to her so harshly. She was his friend…wasn't she? He liked to think so. He still remembered that first day, when he came to Downton and they met. He also remembered how later, she found him in an empty stairwell, long after his aunt had taken her away to clean her up and dress her knee. By that point, he had met with both Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, as well as Lord Grantham. He had been told his duties and reminded of the high expectations they had for him…and was now clutching his meager belongings as he waited for someone to fetch him a blanket and pillow before being shown to where he was to sleep…when he heard a tiny _"psst!"_ and saw her face peeking through one of the doors that led to the corridor just beyond.

" _You didn't call for 'help',"_ she had whispered. _"I guess that means you didn't need it."_

He remembered her saying that; if he needed help, just to call out for her.

She smiled at him, and Tom felt his anxiety begin to melt away.

" _That's alright; I'm glad you didn't need it, but I was listening, just in case."_

He didn't know what to say to that, other than smile back.

" _Remember, if you need anything…don't hesitate to call_!" she told him, and then whispered just before disappearing, _"Welcome to Downton, Tom."_

And for the first time since he had made that journey from Dublin to this tremendous, frightening house…he felt at ease. That despite the distance from home and how different everything was…he actually believed it was going to be alright.

He actually did feel… _welcome_. And that feeling continued, whenever he saw her or whenever she looked his way and smiled.

 _But that's just Sybil being Sybil,_ a voice reminded him. He soon learned that she was like this with everybody—speaking to the other servants in a way that often won her harsh looks or hissed reprimands. And if those reprimands were not hissed at her, then they were delivered to him for not "moving along" and getting on with his work, rather than standing there and "encouraging her" to treat him as if he were her equal. And he wasn't, he sadly had to remind himself.

"Sybil!"

Tom and Sybil lifted their heads towards the harsh voice of Lady Mary, Sybil's oldest sister. She hadn't seen them yet, thanks to the cover of the willow's branches, but if she did catch the two of them sitting together, Tom knew that would be the end of him.

"You better go," he muttered, tucking the book under his arm and rising from where he sat. It was good advice for himself as well.

He felt her eyes on him, penetrating to his very soul, but he didn't look back at her. He couldn't deny that a part of him felt guilty for what he had said, but at the same time, he wasn't sorry for saying it either. He liked Lady Sybil very much, and he'd be lying if he pretended that these secret moments didn't mean anything to him. But…as painful as it sometimes was, it was good to be reminded that they weren't the same.

"Tom…"

He swallowed and stopped. He told himself over and over to keep moving, to just walk away and join the other boys for a change. But there was a soft urgency in her voice, and like a siren's call, he found himself turning and looking back.

Sybil had risen to her feet and was looking back at him, her chin lifted, her eyes shining, and her hands clasped in front of her. "You're right, we are different. And…and I sometimes forget that."

His heart squeezed at her words, and a sudden panic seized him. Had he gone a step too far? Was she now going to realize that he was just a hall boy and someone with whom she shouldn't speak to at all?

"However…" she swallowed and lifted her chin a bit higher. "However, I think we're more alike than perhaps you think."

Tom's mouth fell open, unsure exactly how to respond. "I…I didn't say—"

"I know," Sybil murmured, looking down somewhat shyly. "And I am sorry; I do not mean to sound ungrateful, nor do I mean to belittle the hard work which you do—"

"Milady—"

"Sybil!"

They both turned towards the direction of Lady Mary's voice, which was sounding more urgent, not to mention more exasperated by the second.

Sybil groaned and gave him an apologetic smile, before turning and grabbing her discarded shoes and stockings which apparently had been hiding behind the willow's trunk. "Just think about what I said," she whispered, before dashing through the branches and crying out her sister's name.

Tom watched from the safety of the willow's branches as Sybil darted away, leading her sister away from the tree, providing him with a chance to escape unnoticed. But he simply stood there, his heart racing as he watched her rush back towards the house, fighting the urge to shout back to her, _"I believe you!"_ because despite the cynical voice of "realism" that always seemed be swirling around him, he agreed with Lady Sybil. They were both very different people who came from very different worlds. And yet despite those differences, he too believed, deep in his soul, that they were more alike than the world would care to admit.

 _To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

_Rolling right along! Thanks again for your patience and for reading! The month of lurve has inspired me to write during any spare moment I can find, so I hope to be churning some things out a bit quicker! *fingers crossed* Anyway, we're starting this chapter "in the past" and then moving to the present (1919).  
_

 _Also, it's been fun reading people's reactions to "Sybil's coldness" from the previous chapter; hopefully this "memory" from childhood will help explain the possibility to *why* she was upset with him ;o)_

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

 _November, 1909_

"Tommy, might I have a word?"

Tom looked up the crate of apples he had just brought in from the store cupboard to the kitchens for Mrs. Patmore and her staff. He wiped his hands on the long apron he and his fellow hall boys wore over their simple clothes, his brow furrowed in confusion as he looked back at his aunt.

"I need to help Mrs. Patmore—"

"Go on, lad," Mrs. Patmore interrupted, poking her head around the corner and offering him a kind smile (a rarity according to the kitchen staff). "I'll explain to Mr. Carson in case he comes around."

Tom swallowed and nodded his head in thanks to the cook, before crossing the kitchen to where his aunt stood, noticing the way her lips were pressed firmly together, and how her eyes were cast downward. She didn't have to say anything to him for him to realize something was wrong.

"Mrs. Hughes was kind enough to offer us her parlor," his aunt told him, which only heightened his anxiety. The only reason any one would go to either the housekeeper's parlor or butler's pantry was so that no one else would overhear their conversation. _Something_ was definitely wrong.

"What's going on?" he asked his Auntie Aoife, stopping at the threshold of the housekeeper's parlor.

His aunt sighed and looked back at him. "Come on, Tommy—"

"Is it Mam?" he interrupted, panic rising in his voice. "Kieran? The girls—?"

"Your family is _fine_ ," his aunt calmly but firmly reassured. "Nothing bad has happened, but please, Tommy…come in and sit down."

He still hesitated, but eventually did as she asked, and tentatively stepped foot into Mrs. Hughes' parlor, closing the door behind him and waiting with bated breath for whatever news his aunt had to say. She said it had nothing to do with his family, but…there were others he cared about.

 _Sybil…_

Was that it? Had something happened to Sybil? Was she ill? Was she hurt? Had she gotten into some kind of trouble?

"Tommy…"

"Please, Auntie Aoife," he managed to speak, his voice cracking ever so slightly. He swallowed and took a deep breath. "Just…tell me, please."

His aunt kept her eyes on him for a moment, and then with a sigh, took a seat. As for Tom, he remained standing; he wasn't sure if he trusted his legs right now, his anxiety was growing by the second and he feared that if he attempted to bend his knees, they would buckle beneath him. So instead he remained as he was, straight and tall with his hands folded behind his back in an attempt to hide his sweaty palms.

"I'll not mince words," she began, and Tom held his breath. "I've spoken with his Lordship…and it's been decided that I'll stay on at Downton until the New Year."

Tom blinked.

"… _I'll stay on at Downton until the New Year…"_

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"… _I'll stay on at Downton until the New Year…"_

He was completely taken aback. Of all the things his aunt could have told him…for some reason, this had never crossed his mind.

"Don't just stand there with your mouth gaping open, Tommy," Auntie Aoife chastised, to which Tom snapped it shut immediately. His aunt shifted herself a bit on the chair, and looked up at him, clearly waiting for him to say _something_ to this bit of news she had just delivered. And without being prompted, he felt himself sink down onto another vacant chair.

His mouth began to form the words, though a million questions were flashing through his head. Finally, he uttered "…Why?"

Auntie Aoife sighed and looked down at her hands which were folded on her lap. "It's for the best," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Tom's brow furrowed, and then he found himself leaning forward and reaching out to his aunt, grasping her hands tightly in his own. "Were you sacked!?" His voice carried an edge of panic and outrage at the thought.

Auntie Aoife's eyes widened at his question, and she snatched her hands from his grasp. "Certainly not!" she admonished, looking at him as if he were mad to even suggest the idea. "No, I was not sacked, thank you very much," she muttered, smoothing back a bit of a hair that had come loose from her cap. "It's just…" she paused and took a deep breath, as if collecting herself. "It's just time for me to go."

Tom's frown only deepened. "But Auntie—"

"Lady Sybil will be turning thirteen in the New Year," she went on, her eyes once again looking downward. "She'll be leaving the nursery soon, and therefore she won't have a need for a nanny."

It made sense, Tom knew. He started working full time at the age of eleven. Children of working class families grew up faster; they had too. But today was a reminder that eventually, posh children grew up too.

"Lord and Lady Grantham have no other children for me to mind, so..." her voice trailed off, but not fast enough for Tom to miss the slight catch in her throat. She cleared it and gave a little shake of her head before meeting his eyes once again. "An exact date hasn't been decided, but I imagine it will be sooner, rather than later," she explained, her voice trying once again to sound detached and "matter-of-fact" about the matter, when Tom knew his aunt was feeling quite the opposite.

Tom swallowed and looked down at his own hands which were resting atop his knees. "...Will you go back to Dublin?"

She sighed but forced a smile. "Perhaps," she murmured. "That is, if I don't find another position in England; Her Ladyship is being most kind and has written to several friends, promising to help me with finding a new position. His Lordship has promised to send a glowing reference…" her voice trailed off again, and she turned her head, although Tom managed to see the residue of tears on her cheek. "Anyway, I wanted to reassure you that just because I'll be going doesn't mean you have anything to worry about," she told him, turning and smiling once again, despite the emotion he saw clouding her eyes. "You've proven yourself to be a good worker, both according to His Lordship and Mr. Carson. If you keep it up, you may find yourself being promoted to the role of 'footman' someday!"

Tom forced his own smile, more for his aunt's sake than for anything else. In all honesty, he found the idea of putting on that "penguin suit" as appealing as having to shovel cow dung all the live long day.

His aunt's face softened, and Tom felt his own throat close as a bubble of emotion swelled within. "I'm very proud of you," she murmured, her smile sincere and genuine. She leaned forward and cupped his cheek, her smile widening and her eyes shimmering. "Aye, you've made us all very proud…"

He took a deep breath in an effort to swallow back the tears that he could feel stinging the edge of his eyes. He smiled back at her, but like before, it remained forced. He appreciated what his aunt was saying, and he understood why she had to leave, but at the same time, despite her words of pride and hope for what his future may contain, he did not feel any joy or relief. And how could he? His aunt was leaving—his one tether to home, to family, to Ireland…

Perhaps he should go with her?

 _Don't be stupid,_ he quickly chastised himself. She would probably find another position before Christmas, and while a posh family might be looking for a new nanny, it was doubtful that same posh family would be looking for an insignificant hall boy. And…did he really want to go and work for another house in England?

No. No, he didn't. And he could list a great many reasons why, but there was one in particular…

"Does she know?" he found himself asking before realizing the words had left his mouth. His aunt raised an eyebrow and Tom swallowed nervously, feeling his cheeks grow hot. Auntie Aoife was well aware that he and Lady Sybil had developed a friendship…or at least as much of a friendship as a hall boy could have with the daughter of his employer. Yet he also knew that there was a distinct boundary drawn down the middle of that friendship, one where his "familiarity" with asking such a question could be seen as hovering dangerously close to the edge of that boundary.

"Aye," Auntie Aoife answered at last. "His Lordship told her, and I was present."

Tom imagined that exchange; Lord Grantham standing firm and tall as he told his youngest daughter that her nanny, a woman he knew she was very close to—who had become in a way like a third parent—would be leaving, never to return. Her face had either crumpled in despair at hearing these words, or she had forced back the tears and waited until she was alone before releasing her sobs.

…He imagined it was the latter. Sybil hated to cry in front of others.

A knock on the door interrupted their solitude, before Mrs. Hughes poked her head inside. "Everything alright, Nanny?" the housekeeper asked, not without sympathy as she glanced at Tom.

Auntie Aoife had risen to her feet and nodded her head. "Aye, everything is fine. Thank you again, Mrs. Hughes, for the use of your parlor."

"Of course," Mrs. Hughes murmured, before looking once again at Tom. "Well, lad, best you be getting back to work. Mrs. Patmore could use your brawn in the kitchens."

Tom nodded and gave an obedient response before glancing once again at his aunt, who made a small gesture with her hands, signifying that he be on his way, along with a kind, but sad smile. "We'll talk some more later," she assured him just before he left the room, although he wasn't sure what more could be said on the matter. His aunt was leaving Downton—not right away, but soon. And the moment would be here before he knew it…

He took a deep breath and reentered the kitchens, quickly busying himself with whatever tasks Mrs. Patmore had for him, ignoring the cook's questioning gaze. "Here, lad," she called out, pointing to several crates of fruit and vegetables. "We're done with those—return them to the store cupboard."

Tom nodded and picked up the crates with ease, moving through the bustling passages of the kitchens and servant's hall before he reached a somewhat quiet corridor that led to the store cupboard in question. He opened the door and deposited the crates where they belonged and had just turned on his heel to return to the kitchens, when a person came barreling around the corner, practically running into him.

"JESUS!" he swore, stumbling backwards into the door. At first he thought it had been one of the kitchen maids, but when his eyes focused on the trembling girl in front of him, he quickly realized it was someone who didn't belong down there at all. "Milady?"

Her face was pale, and she looked every bit as startled as he felt from her sudden appearance. However, he didn't have to squint to see the blotchy red streaks on her cheeks, or the pink circles around her eyes. And the moment he murmured her title, her face crumpled and a gasp-like sob escaped her throat. And even though a voice in his head told him not to, he ignored it…and took a single step towards her and enfolded her trembling body in his arms.

"Hush, milady, hush…" he whispered into her ear as she burrowed her face against his chest. He shouldn't be doing this—holding her like this. Talking to her was bad enough, but if either Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes came around that corner, he knew he would be sacked on the spot. But he didn't loosen his hold on her, if anything, he simply tightened his embrace and she made some sort of sound—not of protest or pain, but if anything…a sound of gratitude.

Tom glanced around quickly, and with quiet, careful steps, guided Sybil into the store cupboard where at the very least they would momentarily be out of sight. Even so, they could not linger in the room for very long before somebody stumbled across them. "Don't cry, milady," he whispered once again, hoping to soothe her.

Sybil shook her head against his chest and muttered something, though what he wasn't sure; her words were quite muffled.

"What was that?" he asked, attempting to coax her head up.

She sniffled and lifted her tear-stained face towards his, and Tom felt his breath catch. "I said…" she managed to say between tearful gulps, "How can you expect me NOT to cry!?"

He bit his lip to hold back the smile that threatened to spread. She wouldn't appreciate it and no doubt feel he was making fun of her. But it was hard not to grin and be charmed by her indignant response, or to be moved by it. He didn't have to ask her to know why she was upset. His aunt had told him how Sybil had responded when Lord Grantham had delivered the news about her future departure from Downton, but Tom knew better; he knew that _this_ would be Sybil's true reaction, that her heart would break at the prospect of losing her nanny, a woman she cared very much for…perhaps even loved.

Tom eased Sybil away from him, just a little, although her own arms, wrapped firmly around his waist, only seemed to tighten as if afraid he would disappear should she let him go. "I'm sure if you write her, she'll stay in touch with you as much as possible," he assured her, his hands rising up to squeeze her arms, just above her elbows.

Sybil pressed her lips together, as if trying to hold back another threatening sob. She surprised him by shaking her head. "She…she won't have time for me…" she mumbled, her eyes falling to the ground. "She'll be busy with her new charge...I would only get in the way…"

Tom's eyes softened as he listened to Sybil's words. In some ways, she was right. Assuming his aunt did find another position (and he had every confidence she would), she would most likely be very busy caring for another family's children. And an unspoken rule in the life of a servant was to let go of the past and not give much if any thought to your previous employers, as it would distract you from your present work.

And yet despite these realities, Tom refused to believe them, or to believe that his aunt would ignore, let alone forget Sybil. "She cares for you very much, milady," he whispered, his hands squeezing her shoulders and bringing her attention back to him once again. "I _know_ she would keep in touch." He saw hope swimming in the watery blueness of her eyes, and once again he felt his breath catch.

Sybil's eyes searched his for a moment, and then she whispered, her voice shaky, "…And you, Tom?"

His brow furrowed and his face drew back in surprise. "M-m-me?" he stammered, his cheeks suddenly feeling rather hot.

Sybil licked her lips. "Do you…care?"

His eyes widened.

"Will you…keep in touch, too?"

Surprise gave way to confusion. "Keep in touch?" he repeated.

Her grip around him seemed to tighten. "If…if I write you, will you also write back to me?"

Tom blinked. "Write back…?" he began to repeat, and then realization suddenly dawned on him. She thought _he_ was leaving too! "Milady," he gripped her shoulders and forced her to look at him. "I'm _not_ leaving."

Sybil blinked for a moment, and Tom thought perhaps he would need to repeat himself, but then her eyes began to widen and something…he wasn't sure what exactly, but _something_ seemed to flash across her gaze. Shock? Relief, perhaps?

"You're…you're not going with your aunt?"

If she were anybody else, his cynical side would have reared up and muttered, _"Not all of us can afford to simply go about and leave a position willy-nilly,"_ but that wasn't who Sybil was. Lady Sybil may be ignorant when it came to the harsh realities of his world, but she wasn't unfeeling. In truth, she cared very deeply, and unlike most of her kind, seemed to view him, his aunt, and the rest of Downton's staff as actual people.

"No," he murmured, this time not stopping the smile from spreading. "No, I'm staying."

She looked confused. "But…but I thought…" she let him go then and lifted her hands to wipe her cheeks. They were still pink, but Tom had a feeling there was a different cause to this particular coloring. Then she surprised him by asking, "…Don't you miss Ireland?"

He blinked, and found himself nodding before speaking. "Aye, I do," and he did. Not a day went by when he didn't think of his family and the land he had left behind nearly five years ago.

"I…I just thought…" her face was darkening more and more and then she gave an embarrassed groan before covering her face completely with her hands. "Oh Lord, I'm doing it again."

Tom raised an eyebrow at that. "Doing what, milady?"

She sighed and lowered her hands. "Making assumptions," she muttered, her eyes looking anywhere but at him. "I…I assumed that with Nanny leaving…you would be leaving too, and…and going back to Ireland because you miss it and—"

"I already told you, milady, I'm _not_ leaving…" he softly interrupted, his hands once again going to her shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. Her face was still pink, but her eyes did lift to meet his, and that hope he had seen earlier only seemed to grow in their blue depths.

But the smile that was starting to spread on her lips began to falter, and her face grew serious once again. "But…but you will go back someday…won't you?"

In the past, the answer to that question had always been, _"God willing, YES!"_ But for the first time, Tom found his head and heart hesitating on the answer. He wanted to go back—he _needed_ to go back someday…

…And yet…

There had never been, an "and yet" before.

"Tom?" He realized that she was saying his name, and he quickly gave his full attention to her, all the while his head throbbing and his heart pounding as a strange unease settled over him.

"Promise me," she murmured, her hands seeming to have found his and squeezing them. "Promise me that we _will_ keep in touch, when that day comes?"

 _Keep in touch…_

"Please?"

He blinked, and through the haze of questions that were swimming around him, he managed to nod his head, before finally answering back without any hesitation, "Aye, I promise."

He could see tears forming in her eyes once again, but despite those tears she did smile, although there was sadness to it as well.

The sound of something crashing just outside caused reality to come racing back, and Tom let go of Sybil's hands and poked his head outside of the store cupboard, seeing several hall boys trying to quickly clean up the mess they had made, unaware of Tom and Sybil's presence.

"You should go," he whispered to her, motioning with his head to the other hall boys. "While they're distracted, you should go."

She nodded her head in understanding and turned to leave…but not before grasping his hands tightly in hers, and surprising him by leaning up on her toes and pecking his cheek with her lips. "Thank you!" she whispered, before dashing off without a backwards glance.

Warmth spread throughout his body, and his hand rose to touch the place where she had kissed him. Why she had thanked him, he wasn't sure; for comforting her sorrow for his aunt's leaving? For assuring her that he wasn't leaving as well? For promising to "keep in touch" when the day came and he _did_ find himself leaving? Perhaps…for all of the above?

"Oi, Branson!" Tom jumped at the sound of his name. It was one of the hall boys he had spotted, looking at him in confusion. "What you still doing there? Mrs. Patmore is in a right state—"

"I'm going," he muttered, moving past the other two boys and hurrying back to the kitchens, pushing all other thoughts aside for the moment, or at the very least, trying to. _Especially_ the kiss Lady Sybil had given him…

* * *

 _Downton, 1919_

"Sybil was always good at that…"

Tom's head jerked up at Lady Edith's words. "I'm sorry, milady?"

Lady Edith simply smiled, as if whatever she had said were the most natural thing in the world. "My younger sister, Lady Sybil—she's always been good at remembering the names of Downton's staff."

Tom mutely nodded his head at Lady Edith's words. She wasn't wrong; out of all of them, Sybil was the one who would remember their names. Perhaps that was because she saw them as more than just their jobs?

"Well, I suppose that does it," Lady Edith sighed, smoothing her skirt before rising from her chair. "Or do you have any more questions?"

Tom quickly rose to his feet and shook his head, tucking his notebook into his coat pocket. "No, milady, and thank you for your time."

Lady Edith beamed and made a gesture towards the library door. The interview was officially at an end. "You're quite welcome, Mr. Branson…and thank you for coming here, as well as for your paper's interest in Downton's part in the war effort."

Tom forced a smile for politeness' sake and gave a slight bow of his head before moving to the door. A part of him was eager to leave this place and all the memories it contained from his boyhood, while another part of him was anxious to know and see if _she_ would be waiting on the other side.

It had been tempting to chase after her, although what would he say if he caught her? Where would he begin? Someone, be it a footman or Mr. Carson would think he was "attacking" her and have him seized, the police called, and he'd find himself in a cell, humiliated, and with no job or reference to find another. And if that didn't happen…well, who was to say that Sybil wouldn't throw her fist back and make a connection with his jaw? For there was no denying the anger he saw burning in the cold gaze she gave him. Which…actually got his back up, the more he thought about it. He was the master of his own life! There was nothing wrong with working in service, but it wasn't the life he wanted, not forever. And even though he believed she always saw him as an equal, he couldn't _be_ her equal if he had stayed! Surely she understood that?

"Mr. Branson?"

Tom swallowed and gave his head a bit of a shake. "Sorry," he mumbled, before forcing another smile.

Lady Edith gave him a look that seemed to be filled with pity and understanding, although he doubted she really understood what he was thinking and feeling.

"I imagine it must be rather strange," she murmured in a kind tone. "Returning to Downton after all these years."

Well, perhaps she did understand a little bit of what he was thinking. "Aye," he admitted, still forcing a smile. "It is, I'll not deny."

To be fair, Lady Edith had tried to make things seem as "un-awkward" as possible, after Sybil's departure from the library. She basically did what most aristocrats from Tom's experience, did: she pretended it hadn't happened.

"I wonder, would you perhaps care to go below stairs, to reunite with any of your former colleagues?"

Tom blinked at Lady Edith's question, then politely (but firmly) began to shake his head. "No, no, that wouldn't be necessary, milady, besides…" he swallowed and forced yet another smile. "I already reintroduced myself to Mr. Carson and it was clear he has no memory of me; I doubt anyone down there remembers who I am, and even so, I wouldn't want to get in the way of their work."

Lady Edith's brow furrowed at Tom's words, but she didn't push the matter further, to which he was grateful. _Aye, best to leave at once,_ he thought to himself. He had done what he had come here to do—the bare minimum, he knew, but still, he had done his duty and it truly was in the best interests of everyone…himself, included…if he just go—

The door opened then without warning and both Tom and Lady Edith turned to see the Downton butler standing straight and tall before announcing, "The Countess of Grantham, milady," his eyes never meeting Tom's but his presence seeming to be very much aware of Tom as he spoke.

"Mama!" Lady Edith greeted, smiling as the American heiress to whom Tom had very little interaction with when he had been working at Downton, but whose blue eyes he remembered as they were clearly the same eyes as Sybil's, entered the library with a broad grin.

"Hello, darling!" Her Ladyship returned the greeting, leaning forward and kissing Lady's Edith cheek, before turning her attention to Tom and causing his anxiety to spike a smidgen further. "I'd just returned from Granny's when Carson told me that the journalist was here! Welcome to Downton, Mister…?"

"Branson, Mama," Lady Edith informed, and before Tom could say anything for himself, she immediately began explaining his past history with the Crawley family and the house. "Mr. Branson once served as a hall boy at Downton, Mama!"

"Oh!" Lady Grantham turned back to him with even wider eyes. "Truly? Well, what a wonderful surprise!" Which was very kind of her to say, although Tom wondered who exactly, it was a wonderful surprise for?

"Indeed, Your Ladyship," Tom politely replied, feeling Mr. Carson's stern gaze on him.

"How long has it been?" Lady Grantham pressed, and Tom started to realize he wouldn't be leaving Downton Abbey as soon as he had expected.

"Almost seven years, Your Ladyship," he dutifully answered, his eyes sparing a quick glance at the butler, but Mr. Carson continued to stand ram-rod straight and keep his gaze fixed on the wall ahead.

Lady Grantham smiled and nodded at his answer. "And how kind of you to wish to come back after all this time to write our story."

Tom continued to smile politely, choosing not to burst Lady Grantham's bubble by explaining that he had not chosen this assignment, it was dropped on him when the original journalist had fallen ill. His smile quickly faded when Lady Grantham's eyes widened even further, before gasping, "oh! Surely you'll want to see the rest of the staff before you go! Carson!"

Tom's own eyes widened and his face paled as the butler obediently turned towards the countess.

"Carson, please take Mr. Branson below stairs and reunite him with the staff! I'm sure they all miss each other terribly."

Tom opened his mouth to offer a kind protest, but Mr. Carson spoke before he did, and murmured, "certainly, Your Ladyship—if you would follow me, Mr. Branson."

Tom swallowed and glanced at the butler and then back at the Countess of Grantham, who was beaming back, oblivious to the awkwardness of the situation. To refuse her offer would not only be deemed rude, but could also get him in trouble with the paper, should the Crawleys choose to ring his editor. And…despite his earlier protest to Lady Edith, he couldn't deny, a part of him was curious about who remained, among those he had once worked with. He doubted any of the boys were still there, but…Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes…?

Tom did as Mr. Carson instructed, and followed the butler away from the library towards a somewhat familiar corridor that would lead him to a staircase that would go directly to the Servant's Hall. _This is surreal,_ he found himself thinking. To think that he had awoken this morning, in his tiny London flat, not knowing that he would later be arriving in Yorkshire to conduct an interview at Downton Abbey, the home of his former employer and the girl he—

"Do keep up, Mr. Branson," Mr. Carson grumbled, looking back at Tom with a deep scowl. Tom hadn't realized he had been "dragging his feet", so lost in his thoughts on the past. He quickly mumbled an apology and followed the butler through the door that would take them to the stairwell that led to the Servant's Hall.

Tom eyed the back of the butler, wondering what was going through the man's head. Did he truly remember him? And if he did, what did he think of Tom's reappearance? Mr. Carson was a man of "old tradition", someone who rarely questioned "the way things are". For Mr. Carson, the greatest job a person could have would be serving a family like the Crawleys in a house like Downton Abbey. Why anyone would wish to leave that world behind and work anyplace else, was no doubt a foreign concept to the man. Did that make Tom a "traitor" in the butler's eyes?

"You will have to excuse me, Mr. Branson, but because of the War, there is a great deal to do before the dressing gong is rung and only so many people to—"

"I won't get in the way," Tom assured. "And I won't take too much of your time."

Mr. Carson glanced at him and simply gave a stiff nod, before leading them into the Servant's Hall.

Tom froze at the entry, a wave of old memories crashing over him. The place was a sea of activity, with kitchen maids and hall boys dashing to and fro while housemaids took freshly pressed linens and newly polished candlesticks moved passed them, pausing to glance at him with curious eyes, before hurrying on with their tasks before Mr. Carson caught them looking. It had been nearly seven years, and yet so little had changed…

"Bless my soul…"

Tom's head turned quickly at the Scottish accent and his eyes widened at the sight of the Downton housekeeper—seven years older, her dress altered from how he remembered it, her hair a bit grayer, but…the kindness in her eyes was exactly how he remembered her…

"Hello, Mrs. Hughes," he murmured, stepping around Mr. Carson and smiling at the housekeeper.

"It IS you, isn't it lad?" Mrs. Hughes gasped, ignoring the shocked expression on Mr. Carson's face as she took Tom by the shoulders and searched his own features, her smile growing by the second. "Aye, it is…it is—I'd recognize those eyes anywhere!"

Tom chuckled and bit the inside of his cheek, trying his hardest to swallow the emotional lump in his throat. "It's good to see you," he whispered, meaning every word. Despite his earlier misgivings, he was glad Her Ladyship insisted he come down here.

"Not half as good as it is to see you, laddie," she chuckled. "And I must say you are a sight for sore eyes! You were a boy when last I saw you…and look at you now! So grown up! And quite handsome, as well."

Tom blushed and Mr. Carson cleared his throat rather loudly.

"I hardly believed it, when Lady Sybil said—"

Tom's smile faded at the mention of her name. "Lady Sybil?"

"Aye, surely you remember her?" Tom swallowed and mutely nodded his head as Mrs. Hughes continued. "She came down here and told us you were here—a journalist now! Oh lad, you should have written to let us know you were coming!"

Tom felt his face grow redder. "I…well, I honestly didn't know—"

"Blimey, is that _him!?"_

Tom looked over the housekeeper's shoulder to the surprised voice of Downton's cook. Mr. Carson again cleared his throat, making it quite obvious of his disapproval of Mrs. Patmore leaving her duties in the kitchen, but like Mrs. Hughes, she too ignored Mr. Carson and crossed the room to where Tom was standing.

"I can't believe it!" Mrs. Patmore gasped, looking him up and down and then laughing as she unexpectantly grasped his left forearm. "Ha! As muscular as I remember."

Mrs. Hughes swatted at Mrs. Patmore's hand, her own face turning pink and her expression matching the horrified one on Mr. Carson's face. "Here now, don't go poking and prodding the lad!"

"Brawniest of all the boys, that's what I remember," Mrs. Patmore chuckled. "Glad to see that you haven't lost all of that, despite this 'city job' Lady Sybil's been telling us about."

Sybil had been talking about him? She had not only come down here and told both Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore about his arrival, but…she had also told them about what he was doing?

"Stop it," Mrs. Hughes groaned at the cook, before turning back to Tom and smiling up at him. "Very proud we are to hear how you're doing so well," she told him, her face and her words full of sincerity.

Doing so well? He wasn't sure he would say _that_ , exactly but…

 _Sybil._ Had she really told them that?

"Ahem!" Mr. Carson coughed, eyeing both women severely.

Tom didn't want to bring any sort of trouble to either woman, so he smiled and forced himself to take a step back. "I didn't mean to get in the way of your work—"

"Oh, nonsense," both women said at the same time, and Mr. Carson's eyes looked ready to burst from his skull.

"Still, I should leave you to it—"

"Oh, you're not leaving yet, are you lad?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"Stay and have some supper with the rest of us, just like old times!" Mrs. Patmore insisted.

Tom thought Mr. Carson's throat would be run raw based on the amount of throat clearing he was doing.

"That's very kind," he murmured, tempted—very tempted—to say yes, but his gaze was quickly drawn away from the women and his voice died in his throat as he looked up and noticed another, standing in a nearby doorway, her uniform from earlier gone and in its place, a sleeveless gown of gold and black that beautifully flowed down her body, enunciating her curves and reminding him again, that she was no longer a girl of fifteen.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Branson, but…my parents were wondering if you would do us the honor of joining us for dinner this evening?"

 _To be continued..._


End file.
